


The Daily Die-gest

by AdelineAround



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anal Sex, Bottom Kieran, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Heist, Horseback Riding, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Self-Discovery, Self-Indulgent, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Top Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: After his mishap with the O'Driscolls, Kieran Duffy finds himself thrown into a life where he must face a new reality.There is just one problem: he is not the only one here- the whole Van der Linde gang came along for the ride, but they do not remember him. Not even Arthur Morgan, who was the only one to take care of him at the camp near Valentine, realizes who he is.With familiar faces and yeasty adventures that lie ahead, will Arthur be the nemesis of Kieran's pride? Or will they come together, and face Kieran's new life in 2018 head-on?





	The Daily Die-gest

**Author's Note:**

> For [Raaaawrbin](https://twitter.com/raaaawrbin).  
> I'm coming in fresh for the new year with my first RDR2 fic, featuring Arthur and Kieran. Big thanks to all of you who have cheered me on to finishing through the whole game, because everything HURT after chapter 4.

All Kieran Duffy can feel is pain.

Red, hot, searing hurt that radiates from his throat. His jugular veins pulse, expand to what seems like balloons as his life’s essence pours molten and sticky over his own body. Arterial spray paints the ground below him like a phoenix’s ruby feathers, with the fiery aftertaste heady in his mouth. It forces its way up his esophagus, budges open his epiglottis, and floods his oral cavern. The blood seeps from his chapped, bruised lips, running down into his beard, slicking it in carmine color.

This is it. This is the end for him.

He thinks, or tries to, but the pain in his neck is too great. Panic steps forth in his brain, eradicating anything and everything except for fear that he is _dying_.

Kieran does not want to die. He thought, before all this had played out, that he had many years of thievery and heists ahead of him. Now, it seems like all that was a mere pipedream, so impossible as his life flashes before him with a tinge of plasma and red cells flowing from the wound in his throat.

Blood collects in his lungs, which struggle to stay open; fluids like this should not be in the alveoli, and Kieran coughs and gurgles and gags as his body fights to breathe. He should not, the rational part of him knows, but the fight-or-flight instincts hurl him into a sobbing fit, attempting to suck in much needed oxygen.

Colm O’Driscoll comes into view then, blurred by the salty tears in Kieran’s lake green eyes. He laughs, raspy and reedy, in Kieran’s face, bluish purple with begging, crying, and the lack of air. The O’Driscoll hacks up one, spitting a gruesome ball of sputum across Kieran’s cheeks, watching it soil him further.

“Shoulda known you were a rat amongst us,” Colm sneers, so close to the ex-O’Driscoll boy that Kieran can _smell_ his tobacco-heavy words. Their noses are nearly touching when Colm continues, “It’s a good thing you’re dumb like one, too.”

Kieran’s voice bubbles in the red that fills his voice box in protest, but he cannot utter a sound. He is drowning above sea level; above the water’s surface.

Colm is not done talking yet.

“You thought we’d take you back if you told us where that Van der Linde was a hidin’, huh?” Colm squints at Kieran, scrutinizing him. “I hate to break it to ya, boy, but you’re nothing but a work mule.” He turns to one of his peers, “Bleed him out, Slim. I want his body in pristine shape.”

“You gonna fuck him later, sir?” Slim says in his nasally voice, so tinny that he reminds Kieran of a horse whinnying.

Kieran would shake if he could. He hated being the one to come to in camp, the one every guy could lay out some onto him and expect him to love it. He squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again, this time seeing a bit clearer when the wet of them cling only to his lashes.

Colm shakes his head. “Naw, I got somethin’ far better.” 

He should be concerned; struggling for his life.

But his head is swimming, his eyesight beginning to turn black around the edges. Vertigo overcomes him as his body slumps suddenly, the fight in him fleeing fast into the woods. He is being abandoned by his only strength, his ability to talk already gone. He is shutting down fast, the dark starting to nibble away at his corneas. He blinks rapidly, or he thinks he does, but his eyesight does not improve. Kieran is dying, and there is nothing he can do about it.

So much for running with the boys. So much for far-fetched dreams, living on luxuries of others or the like. So much for finding a pal and settling down to raise pretty foals and horses.

His time is running out.

“Maybe I should feel bad for yer behind,” he hears Slim talking to him in his irritating voice. “But maybe I shouldn’t. Ya done did this ‘pon yerself.”

Fuck you, Kieran desperately wants to swear. Fuck you. You don’t know what I put or don’t put upon myself.

His ears are rushing now, ear canals restricting to the point that they ache. His eyes have completely blacked out, no longer functioning in their sockets. His mouth hangs open as wide as the gaping slash in his neck, blood draining from him like a fountain.

Well, he surmises, this is it. He is done for. He has let not only the O’Driscolls down, but also the Van der Lindes. He let _everyone_ down.

That is the last thing that crawls through his mind before all he feels is cold. Blue, ice cold.

* * *

He awakes with a start.

It’s a big, heaving start that sends Kieran into a cold sweat of some sort. But he only feels cold and sweaty in his pants, sliding down his thighs disgustingly and dripping to the floor.

He looks down. Kieran is wearing his boots, genuine leather minus the spurs. He is standing on what looks like chewed up cobblestone, tarred over and smoothed out like unbaked pie crust. It is only then Kieran realizes that he is not at the O’Driscoll’s stead.

His neck aches, but there is no gash. At least, not one that Kieran knows about directly.

Kieran distinctly remembers bleeding out to death, cursing out Slim, the lemming man, in his head before he lost grip on his own self.

Did he… did he die?

He is sure he died. Yet, here Kieran is, void of the bloody mess soaking his front like a bib and standing with nothing in his hands.

He looks up, straight ahead of him, and it is like time slows down, playing out like one of those cinematic slideshows he would watch at the spectacular. All that is missing is the piano rift as bullets whizz past his head, men in strange getup running towards him, but not directly looking _at_ him. There are bodies that crumble beside Kieran, and _those_ are the ones who are being targeted, not him.

Nevertheless, he trembles. His nerves quake, rattling Kieran to the bones. His stomach lurches the same time a man to his left goes down, exploding a million pieces in the chest. The remnants fly through the air, onto Kieran’s clothing, sodden with perspiration. He might hurl, at this point.

“... a witness!”

It is only a minute too late when Kieran’s mind catches up to his body, ears suddenly acute to everything being said around him. He finds himself cornered, pressed up against the cold brick surface. He sways like a cobweb, light with confusion.

How the hell did he get here in the first place, he wonders. Last he recalls, he was with them O’Driscolls, to be slaughtered like a pig… he shudders. But there is no time for more speculating, because there are new assailants upon him, one restraining Kieran and threatening him with a gun he’s never seen before.

The weapon the guy carries is smaller, more sleek, discreet. Kieran does not understand why he does not have a revolver, when those were the desired handguns he has seen all his life. This firearm looks like toys crafted from matte-finish metal, which can be easily concealed in a pant pocket.

“What’re we gonna do with this one, Dutch?”

Hold up some. He _knows_ that voice. It is an uncommon tone, so gravelly and unique that it is hard to mistake for someone else’s. Kieran furrows his brow when he finally focuses on the man in front of him; the one keeping his frame pinned to the side of the alleyway- that is where he is.

“Mr. Morgan?” Kieran manages to croak, despite the dryness of his larynx.

Lo and behold, it is none other than Arthur Morgan that holds him down, restrains him from moving and squirming away. He has got a determined glare in his eye, one that Kieran has always known him to have. Kieran cannot explain the relief that rushes through him when Arthur’s grip loosens just a bit.

“How the hell d’you know my name?” Arthur blinks.

Kieran opens his mouth to reply, but he is too shell-shocked to do anything else but gape.

“Ah, shit. There’s a witness?”

Dutch seems to come out from the woodworks, already pocketing his gun away from plain sight.

Dutch Van der Linde looks not a day older as he claps Arthur on the back then. His attire is completely different, with a wine-colored blazer and bottoms that look like the fabric suede boots are made out of. He has lost his hat, hair still mid-length but parted and slicked back neatly. He wears a nice armband watch made of what Kieran guesses is gold, fingernails void of any gritty gunpowder that tends to get trapped under their crescent moons of off-white.

Even Arthur, who looks like he’s taken the rough and tumble for his gang leader, is dressed in a completely different wardrobe. Gone is the heavy mid-calf coat, instead replaced by a short, black leather jacket that shines like oil-slick. His shirt, or at least Kieran thinks it is a shirt, is a the same shade as Dutch’s blazer. He wears a blue denim for trousers, and shoes that only reach up to his ankles.

All said, Dutch and Arthur look goddamn polished, though strangely out of date in Kieran’s opinion.

Then again, maybe he is the one who is out of fashion, because _all_ the men, even the victims that litter the floor, are in similar clothing.

Kieran sticks out like a sore thumb.

“I said,” Arthur reiterates, “How do you know my name, boy?”

He squints his eyes at Kieran. It is an intimidation tactic, Kieran has learned from before. Arthur used to do that back in camp, when Kieran was tied to a tree, begging for a spoonful of his stew. That glare would put him right in his place, shut him up when he was complaining too loudly.

God, and thinking about that camp stew, Kieran unconsciously licks his dry lips as his stomach gives a weak lurch.

“Whoa, there, Arthur.” Dutch is the one to diffuse the situation. “You said he was a witness, right? He ain’t part of those Pinkertons, then.” He says, “You remember their faces. This man looks nothing like them. Hell, you’d think he’d just stepped out of _West World_ or somethin’. He ain’t our target.”

Kieran looks down at his clothes. What is so wrong with his attire?

Arthur grunts, “But he knows who I am, and that’s always a bad sign.”

“Then we take him in. Keep him for a few days to knock the thought of whistle blowin’ outta him, and then decide what we gonna do from there,” states Dutch, finality on the matter crystal in his choice of words. “Unless you got a problem with that, Arthur.”

“I’d rather we get rid of any accessories,” Arthur says.

Christ, Kieran was not sent here to die again! The alarms in his head are going off as he suddenly starts blabbering.

“Please! Please, I ain’t none of them Pinkertons. I swear by it. Hell, I ain’t even done nothing to harm you. If you gotta take me as your prisoner, so be it. I done it before; I’ll do it again. Just, I’m begging you, don’t kill me.”

“Pinkertons? You know ‘em, too?” Arthur queries, but does not let go of Kieran.

Why does Arthur not seem to remember him? And Dutch too? Where is he, and why is he here, when he should be dead?

None of this makes sense to him, he thinks.

“They been chasin’ folk all ‘round town, left and right, for as long as I can remember, sir,” he opts to say instead.

“Well, what do you know? He sounds just like one of those cowboy characters, too.” Dutch turns to Arthur, then shrugs. “It’s up to you, Arthur. I’ll let you handle him however you’d like.”

Kieran gulps. Somehow, he knew Dutch would say that. Arthur is a trustworthy man, and there is no reason why Dutch _should not_ let him take the reins in some situations.

Almost reluctantly, Arthur releases Kieran by the white tunic he is wearing, but not before shoving him away. Kieran breathes out a sigh of relief.

“You’re lucky, boy,” Dutch smirks, moustache quirking upward a smidge. “Since Arthur seems to like you enough.”

Arthur shoots his boss a side-glance. “Aw, now don’t be puttin’ words in my mouth, Dutch. Just because I spared him doesn’t mean I like him more than anyone else.”

But Dutch doesn’t pay much attention, already focused on what to do next. He pulls out a rectangular _thing_ from his trousers to fiddle with it. Well, not figuratively. The surface of it looks like a piece of crystal, a black mirror of sorts. It lights up and displays something Kieran has never seen before, and Dutch taps away at the thing.

“Now what?” Kieran dares to ask, his sentence quivering equally as much as he is in his boots.

“Micah and his accomplice will be here to clean up the mess,” Dutch replies before Arthur can. He grins, his sharp eyes piercing Kieran, same like the first time Kieran met Dutch Van der Linde. “You better cause us no trouble.”

Nodding frantically, Kieran is quick to comply, “‘Course, sir. I dun’ do no harm to ya or yer men.”

Arthur shakes his head, like he always does when he is close to exasperated.

“Looks like you’re comin’ with us, boy,” He concludes, more for himself than anyone else.

Dutch and Arthur hustle Kieran out to a side street, one man in front and the other in the back. He can tell they do not trust him and, to be fair, Kieran does not even trust himself at this point. He has no clue where he is, let alone what is happening.

A great shuttle of lacquered metal on wheels rolls up to the curb then, catching Kieran’s green eyes with its awesomeness. It’s black, like a hearse or the equivalent, but the shape is nothing like one. In fact, it looks modeled after the stars; a comet that zooms through the midnight sky. He can see his reflection in the glass at the side of the shuttle and, oh, does he look absolutely rugged. Something swells in his chest, pride maybe? He looks like a real man, real lived-in cowboy now, though his beard is patchy as all get out.

Arthur pulls on a handle nearest the glass, and the shuttle opens for him, revealing an interior that looks equally as outlandish as the exterior. He looks expectantly at Kieran.

“Aren’t you gettin’ in?” He nudges Kieran in the ribs, grimacing when he feels his elbow dig into the man’s ribs.

Kieran nibbles on his lip, a flush of embarrassed pink ruddying his cheeks. He is practically skin and bones, having been practically starved after being kidnapped by the O’Driscolls. Even when he was accepted at the Van der Linde camp, he only ate what was necessary, too caught up in his own small agenda.

“Don’t tell me you never seen a car before,” sighs Arthur. When Kieran does not reply, he jokes, “What? You used to stallions and mares, cowboy?”

“They’re better than this,” Kieran swears, “Whatever this here thing is.”

Arthur takes charge and ushers the man into the seats of the shuttle. They cram into the small space, with Kieran ducking as he enters the cabin of it, to avoid smacking his head on hard metal and plastic.

“It’s called a car,” Arthur says, giving the shuttle a new name term.

“A car?” Kieran stares as Arthur brings a belt around himself, snapping it in place by inserting the silver buckle piece into a hard square lodged into the fabric of the seats. 

“Put on your seatbelt, unless you wanna be thrown out the windshield if we crash.”

“We’re gonna crash?” He looks devastated.

“Not if I can help it, we ain’t,” Arthur quips back.

Kieran looks at Arthur’s _seat belt_ before locating his own, pulling it over his shoulder and lap before searching for the little box the buckle is supposed to go in.

“Like this?” He attempts inserting the silver piece into the hard square, but it does not click in place like Arthur’s quite did.

“No,” Then, Arthur is taking the seat belt from Kieran, helping him stick it in quickly and efficiently. It snaps into place without any resistance.

Kieran frowns into his scraggly beard. “Thanks, Arthur.” he says, not thinking how Arthur has no recollection of him.

Arthur looks him in the face before retreating to his side of the car and slams its door shut. Dutch climbs into the passenger’s seat up front, with the driver being someone Kieran does not remember the name of. Treland, Trelane? Treeline? Kieran tries, but nothing rings a bell.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur waves off Kieran’s gratefulness with a gloved hand. They look like the same umber gloves Arthur always wears around the Van der Linde camp. “Josiah Trelawny, you better step on it, or the law’s gon’ be comin’ after us.”

“I know, I know,” Josiah- ah, that was his name; Josiah Trelawny-grouses unhappily. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

When the car starts, it all but launches into action, the velocity at which it speeds down the street throwing Kieran back into the cushioned car seats. His eyes go wide, hands gripping, grasping, at anything to keep himself grounded. How the hell can a warped sheet of metal with such a cramped cabin space go so fast without the use of horses at the front? He does not understand.

A gloved hand comes out from seemingly nowhere, latching onto his neck in a gentle manner. It is almost like a caress. Kieran yelps.

Arthur is the one who is holding the back of his neck. “Whoa there, you’re gonna be fine. Just relax,”

“Can’t,” Kieran mumbles, frantic as his eyes barely take in the blur of scenery that the car passes.

His body begins to close in on itself, muscles going stiff as rocks. He wants to hide his face, do something other than live through this ride. It is hard to breathe, though he is functioning just fine. Kieran is so scared; he sorts through his emotions haphazardly.

Arthur purses his lips together and, with that, the fingers around Kieran’s nape start smoothing over skin and baby hairs in slow, circular motions.

“What—“ But Kieran does not finish his sentence, already loosening in the man’s grasp.

It feels… nice. Arthur keeps up his ministrations, circles divulging to figure-eights, pressure still constant and unwavering as he massages the man’s neck. Kieran does not know what to do except fall away in Arthur’s hand, still spooked but not as anxious as he was just moments ago.

“There you go.” He keeps his voice low, the softness in his voice like water washing over Kieran. “Not so bad now, is it?”

Sure, it is. But with Arthur touching Kieran _like that_ , the man is not sure whether the car ride is better or worse. Still, Kieran cannot deny that he is much more comfortable in the physical contact. It reassures him, makes him feel at least a little more secure though he does not know what is happening around him.

“Why’s the car got no horse power?” Kieran questions, as if he knows what he is talking about.

Dutch is the one to speak then, with Josiah staying silent the entire time after their departure, “What do you mean? This thing’s got more than five-hundred sixty,”

The number statistics mean nothing to Kieran, so ignores it, continuing, “But I don’t see no horses in front of yer car.”

“Boy, the horsepower is in the engine,” Arthur butts in, voice still soft so he does not scare Kieran off like a deer.

Kieran does not understand. “There’re horses in an engine as small as this here ol’ thing?”

Suddenly, Dutch is laughing, the sound so genuine, coming out fruitful from his diaphragm and out his throat.

“You’re a funny one, kid,” he chuckles. “You sure aren’t a Pinkerton, with that sense of humor.”

Arthur huffs a bit of breath, but does not comment. Still, Dutch seems to understand his unspoken meaning.

“Arthur, I know you hate witnesses, but this one isn’t so bad.” Dutch reasons with him, “Besides, if you teach him the ropes, I’m sure he would make a decent getaway driver. What do you say, boy?” He directs his talk to Kieran, “You wanna prove that your worth keeping your life by payin’ it forward.”

Paying it forward? What did that mean? Kieran asks it as such.

“Means you’d be runnin’ around with us during errand time,” Arthur explains, then adds, “I don’t know ‘bout this, Dutch. He’d be more helpful in the bread risin’ room.”

“The _what_?” Kieran cries.

Dutch shakes his head. “You always want the newbies to work the bakery first, Arthur. We need real, trained men in there. What happens when the law comes sniffing around the bakery and starts terrorizing the staff? We don’t want to risk putting a snitch there.”

“That makes no sense, and you know it,” Arthur retorts. “The law ain’t gonna be going to the bakery first. They’re too busy chasin’ us ‘cross town whenever we decide to expand our territory. You seriously thinkin’ ‘bout puttin, uh...” He looks at Kieran. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Kieran,” he answers, still unsure of what this debate is all about. “My name is Kieran.”

Light reflects in Arthur’s blue eyes, something that Kieran cannot discern, but the man continues, “... you’re gonna be puttin’ poor boy Kieran in one of your heist teams because he’s got a sense of humor? Dutch, you’re crazy.”

Dutch hums, like he is contemplating Arthur’s words with great thought. They drive on, silence overcoming the four of them quite abruptly.

Kieran takes his time memorizing the feel of Arthur’s gloved hand upon his neck, still tracing his hairline ever so slowly. Perhaps, he has been so touch-starved that this little act of kindness Arthur has bestowed upon him comes off as revolutionary; merciful, after everything Kieran has gone through. He melts into Arthur’s gesture, heart no longer hammering against his rib cage, with his respiratory rate slowing back to normal. He finds that he is content just sitting here in Arthur’s presence, the car steady in its travel to an unknown destination.

Soon, the car comes to a complete stop, and Kieran does not know that he has nodded off until Arthur is unbuckling himself from the vehicle. Kieran makes haste to follow suit, quickly climbing out of the carseat and out into the indoor lot that they have parked in.

“Where are we?” Kieran has the heart to ask.

He struggles to catch up with Arthur, Dutch and Josiah; their one step forward meaning two for Kieran.

“The bakery,” Dutch explains, “You’ll be staying with Arthur for the time being, until we know you’re trained for the heist.”

Arthur seems taken aback at Dutch’s call. “Whoa, whoa, now. When did I ever say I was okay with Kieran stayin’ with me?” he says as they enter through a door and into a facility that _smells_ amazing.

The man keeps griping, clearly voicing his disapproval, but Kieran can hear none of it over his gurgling belly. It has been such a long time since he has smelled this much butter and dough. The notes of crispy pastries and bread waft through the air and into Kieran’s nostrils. It makes his tongue wriggle in his mouth. His belly gurgles, and he wishes that he could stuff everything edible into his face. There is a sweetness that Kieran believes must come from fruits and chocolate, and it hangs around the center of his head, clouding his judgement and thought process with overwhelming hunger. He cannot stop gazing at the loaves of gluten, stashed in shelves. How crispy would they be, when he bites into them? What would it feel like, to chew on the soft insides, relish the yeasty flavor of the bread and moan when the sustenance hits the pit of his stomach.

“Hey, boy, you listening to me?” Dutch snaps his fingers in front of Kieran’s face, finally bringing him out of his stupor.

The cowboy bats his eyelids to refocus, noticing they are by the bakery entranceway, closest to the outside streets.

“Uh, sorry, sir,” he finally apologizes.

Josiah suppresses a chortle, but Arthur overhears it and smacks him in the arm.

“I said, you oughta pull your weight with Arthur or he’ll kill you with his own two hands.” Dutch looks the man in the eye. “You understand me, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” Kieran all but squeaks.

“Good,” Dutch sniffs with a grin. “Now, I have some business to attend to in the Dakotas. So, Arthur, you’re in charge until I come to collect this newbie. I want you to have taught him the basics by the time I come back. Capiche?”

Arthur points his chin towards Dutch’s direction in affirmative.

“You got it, Dutch,” he says, just as the Van der Linde begins to leave the bakery.

“Good, then I’ll see y’all later.”

With that, Dutch leaves, and what little might that is holding Kieran up leaves his body. He kicks out a chair nearest him in the bakery’s lobby, only to collapse into it. He feels like a sack of meat, hanging from the chair, his head swimming when he Arthur comes into view.

He looks so different like this, in clothing unfamiliar and not nearly as fitting as henleys and coats. His head looks so much smaller now that he does not don a hat. Nevertheless, Arthur is Arthur, and Kieran cannot feel more grateful for the man when he says,

“So, boy, you hungry?”

Kieran sucks on his cheeks when his stomach answers for him with a very loud grumble at the mention of food. He makes to cover it up, or at least attempt to, with his hands, but it proves futile.

Arthur just laughs, motioning him to follow.

“Alright, alright,” he says and, this time, no sarcasm lines his words. “Come on, follow me. I can whip somethin’ up in my flat for you.”

“What about the bakery…” Kieran trails off, making it apparent that he craves the baked goods he and Arthur are surrounded by.

Arthur scrunches his nose. “Those are for the customers. Gotta make money somehow. It _is_ a business establishment after all, ain’t it?”

Kieran follows Arthur into the back of the bakery, all the way to a side door, where it divulges off further into the building. Arthur unlocks it, showing Kieran the way. They walk down a hallway, then up a staircase that leads to another that looks very much like an inn of sorts.

“You live here?” Kieran tacks on a question mark to his three words.

“I suppose so,” Arthur answers. “It’s not so much a place I crash at than a place I live in.”

“A place you crash… what?” Kieran scratches his head. “What is with you and crashing?”

Arthur sighs, keys jangling when they get to the door marked as 14, “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“I get out plenty,” Kieran scowls indignantly. “What’chu mean by that? You tryin’ to make fun of me or something?”

“Never mind, forget I said anything.” Arthur lets himself into the apartment. “After you,”

When Kieran enters Arthur’s place, he realizes that the man was not kidding when he said he used it more like shelter than an actual home. It is barely put together, just like the tent that Arthur would sleep in at the Van der Linde camp back near Valentine. In the corner is a funny-looking oven and cooktop, with a bunch of different appliances on the counter surrounding it. To the right is the living space, void of anything but a beat-up leather sofa and one of those black mirror things, only, this time, it is a hundred times bigger and free standing atop a squat cabinet.

The apartment leads further into a bedroom, of which Kieran wades his way to. There is a big bed, enough to hold two and a half, blankets strewn on the mattress surface; a poor attempt of making the sheets. To the left of it is a door, leading to the toilet.

“You live uh,” Kieran tries again, “You live quaintly.”

Arthur smirks. “Now that, boy, is a fancy way of saying I live in a dump.”

“I never done said that!” Kieran backfires.

Arthur moves into the kitchen, opening up the fridge to grab a bag full of hefty bread rolls, a jar of something white, a leafy green, and a package of what looks to be pre-sliced meat.

“Sure, you didn’t,” Arthur says, the word “sure” coming out more like “shoar”. He takes a serrated knife from the kitchen counter drawer next, taking one of the rolls to saw in half. “You can turn on the TV if you want. I don’t particularly care, long as you don’t go tryin’ to kill me, Mr. I-show-up-when-the-Pinkertons-are-’round-but-I-ain’t-one-of-them.”

He stuffs both sides of the bread into a grill-like contraption, slamming down the lever on its side. The bread roll goes with it, into the device with a single click.

“The what?” Kieran says, still standing in the living space like a complete fool.

Arthur groans, “The televisio-” When he sees Kieran stare at him in confusion, he puts down the package of meat. “Ah, Christ. Just… sit your ass down on the couch and shut up while I make you somethin’ to eat.”

But it falls on deaf ears, because Kieran is already roaming towards the kitchen, apparently drawn in by the smell of the bread warming.

“What’s that?” He points at the thing goldening the bread roll.

Arthur cannot believe the man has never seen a toaster before. “It’s called a toaster, boy.” Kieran leans in, looking over the edge of it and into its grill slots. “It makes, uh, I dunno, what do you think? It makes fuckin’ _toast_. Hey! Don’t be stickin’ your face there unless you want a nice burn.”

Right as the words leave Arthur’s mouth, the toaster pops the toast up with a very obnoxious _bang_. Kieran leaps away, crouching low as to not get hit by the hot bread, but loses his footing on the kitchen tile. He lands in a sprawl, forearms still covering his face as he quivers on the floor.

“Ah, shit.” Arthur finds a towel hanging off the oven handle, wiping his hands perfunctorily before helping his guest, or new roommate- or whomever- back onto his feet. “I told you not to come so close.”

He hauls Kieran back to standing position, brushing past to retrieve the roll from the toaster on a plate. He takes it back to the rest of the ingredients then, smearing something that looks like mayonnaise onto the bread before laying out the leafy greens on one side. Kieran makes a face at that, but does not stop Arthur, for he is too hungry to object anything that is intended to go into his stomach.

Arthur lays down the meat next, making sure it goes on extra thick.

“You need something more than just skin and bones to make it in this world,” Arthur reasons, and Kieran’s taste buds are tingling at the sight of double meat on his sandwich.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of watching Arthur make a sandwich, he hands it to Kieran, who takes the plate with eyes so big that Arthur fears he might just eat the sandwich _and_ dish whole.

“Now, go sit down,” he says. “Eat, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

Promptly, Kieran does as he is told, scarfing down his food as soon as he gets his mouth to it.

It tastes _wonderful_ , feels amazing just to be able to eat something when Kieran has gone without edible nutrition in what feels like days, weeks; months even. The bread is still relatively fresh and, with it being toasted, it might almost be as good as the day it was baked. The crisp crunch of the lettuce-green is slightly bitter, but it ties in well with the sweetness of the mound of meat Arthur stacked for him. It must be smoked, the meat, honeyed on the outside before it was sliced paper-thin. It tastes like nothing short of heaven to Kieran, and he moans at each flavor that passes by his tongue.

Arthur comes to the sofa with a glass of water in one hand, and a beer bottle in the other. Kieran stops eating for a moment to snatch the beer, chugging it without a word.

“Boy, that was supposed to be mine,” Arthur is about to complain, but Kieran’s body beats him to it.

Suddenly, Kieran is nauseous, so utterly ill that he cannot take it. It is like his jaw unhinges as his esophagus rejects the food he has just shoved down, chucking it back up like a bad cough. His nose plugs up, as if to stop himself from smelling the acrid stench of his own bile as he empties the contents of his belly to the floor, beer smattering the hardwood with it. Everything hurts as he heaves; bones aching, organs feeling as though they are flipping inside out. He has not eaten in so long. He might have taken too much for his belly to handle.

Arthur slides a hand through Kieran’s ragged hair, pulling it away from his face as he lets the man puke on his living room floor. When Kieran’s illness subsides, he rubs the man on the back in soothing circles, much like the ones he made on Kieran’s neck earlier.

“Here, drink some water,” he takes away the ruined beer from Kieran, replacing it with the glass instead. “I’ll clean it up. Messy boy,”

Kieran’s face threatens to flame with shamefulness. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes, sipping on his water.

Arthur exhales through his nose, but does not say anything more. He gets up to find the trash can and some disposable paper towels. Kieran lies down on the couch, balancing and holding the cup on his belt buckle. Sleepiness is overcoming the front of his mind now, his eyelids drooping as he lets his body relax. He can hear Arthur shuffling around, cleaning up after his one hell of a mess, scrubbing the floor clean. Kieran should feel guilty, should try and help because, after all, he himself was the one who threw up.

But he is so tired, so utterly exhausted, sleep calling to him and pulling his consciousness further and further away from this strange reality, if it is a reality at all.

Kieran feels Arthur wipe his beard and face, his voice calm and soothing,

“I’ve got a feeling ‘bout you, boy. You’re in for the long haul.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ra9ical). I always love chatting, screaming and sobbing with you.


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